


Breaking The Habit

by Mija



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo's Restaurant, Gen, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mija/pseuds/Mija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if Angelo hadn’t heard a word about Sherlock’s suicide, he would have known that something was very wrong the instant John Watson entered the restaurant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking The Habit

Even if Angelo hadn’t heard a word about Sherlock Holmes’ suicide and about the events that had ultimately culminated in it, he would have known that something was _very_ wrong the instant John Watson entered the restaurant.

The aftermath of an unspeakable tragedy was written all over John’s face. He was carrying himself with the air of a man who had fallen down once more than he could get up, and nothing about his posture, about the bowed head, the hunched shoulders and the hesitant steps reminded Angelo of the man who had used to eat dinner with his flatmate at this very restaurant only a few months ago. Not even when they’d met each other for the first time, back then during the case with the murderous cabbie, John had seemed as downcast as he appeared now. Compared to the man who uncertainly sat down at the familiar table, the limping, traumatised soldier had acted like the incarnation of vitality.

The man now sitting in front of Angelo wasn’t a soldier marked by war, nobody whom a self-appointed high-functioning sociopath could help back to his feet; it was a broken man.

Shooting a warning glance at the waiters, Angelo hurried over to John’s table to be the first and only one to greet him.

“John!” he exclaimed, flashing his most winning smile, only to immediately lower his voice to a muffled whisper. “I’m sorry, John, so very sorry. Sherlock was such a decent fellow, I’d have been lost without him, and I don’t believe a single word of that rubbish written in the newspapers ...”

When Angelo had started speaking, John had pressed his lips together as if in pain; now his face changed into an expressionless mask.

“It’s alright, Angelo,” he cut him short. “I appreciate that, really, but ... please, let’s talk about something else.”

It wasn’t difficult to discover the deeper meaning of these words. The true phrase wasn’t “something else” – it was “ _anything_ else”.

Angelo nodded his head sympathetically. “Of course. What may I offer you? Everything’s on the house, of course.”

“I don’t know, I only came here to ...” John interrupted himself, shrugging and looking rather embarrassed. “Actually I’m not really hungry ...”

“You look like you could use a decent meal, if I may say that. And pasta ...” He managed to stop himself just in time before blurting out one of his grandmother’s most important and – at least in this situation – probably terribly inappropriate worldly wisdoms. _Pasta makes you happy. If it doesn’t, you might as well feed it to your dogs_ , the old lady had used to tell him, and while Angelo did agree on that statement, he felt that it would be smarter to keep it to himself for the moment.

“Pasta is always worth a sin,” he added awkwardly.

Compared to Angelo’s fake grin, John’s faint smile faded away to nothing. “Okay ... recommend something to me, why don’t you?”

Angelo nodded, doing his best to maintain the image of the confident and amiable owner of an esteemed restaurant who always adjusted to his customers’ demands; but as soon as he left John and personally delivered the order to the kitchen, his worry couldn’t be suppressed any longer.

He was watching John as intently as he dared, hiding behind the kitchen door. The way John bowed his head, pressed his hands to his ears as if the cheerful conversations of the other guests were unbearable to him ... Not even Angelo, who’d seen a lot of bad things in the course of his life, could shield himself against the painful intensity of this sight. And to make matters worse, the picture seemed somehow incomplete ... Something was clearly missing, _someone_ was missing. An ominous emptiness was lurking on the spot that had usually been occupied by a pale man in a dark coat.

Angelo had always considered himself as part of the group which had liked to interpret more into the relationship between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; but even if the two of them had been nothing but friends, it didn’t make any difference. John had lost the one person that had meant more to him than anybody else, and Angelo didn’t even try to imagine how much this had to hurt.

The part of his mind that wasn’t busy feeling sorry for John was pondering on a question that had been bothering him ever since John had entered the room. What had made John drop in at Angelo’s restaurant on this particular day? Why hadn’t he come around directly after Sherlock’s death – and why did he come around at all? After all, there had to an awful lot of memories linked with this place, memories of Sherlock, of all the times they’d had visited the restaurant together to have dinner there instead of having it delivered directly to 211B Baker Street ...

Alright, most of the time only John had eaten something while Sherlock had been staring out of the window indifferently, but their visits _had_ been regular, and eventually everybody had got used to seeing the cool consulting detective and the blonde doctor in Angelo’s restaurant at least once a month. So what had made John come around _now_? Hunger couldn’t have been the reason, because he barely touched his food. If one of his guests was regarding a carefully arranged meal with such obvious disinterest, it usually didn’t take Angelo long to personally investigate their complaints. He’d have asked any other guest about the reasons for his lack of appetite; however, he left John alone and he also prevented the waiters from approaching this particular table.

“Angelo, what’s wrong with the man at table three?” Billy asked him on his way back to the kitchen, equal parts worried and indignant. In his eyes, it was a blasphemous insult if somebody didn’t show at least a little interest in their meal. “He’s just picking at his foot, it must be cold by know!”

Angelo tried not to stare at the subject of their conversation, and he swept Billy’s unspoken questions away with an impatient wave of his hand. “Don’t you worry about him ... and now go and make yourself useful, you’ve got work to do. The lady at table five has been waiting for too long, and the bins don’t empty themselves!”

“But –,“ Billy protested. He sensed that something was wrong, and he probably knew more than he should have known – well, _everybody_ knew the story of Sherlock Holmes, and the name of John Watson was inextricably linked with it –; but Angelo didn’t want him to interrupt John, although he was usually glad about his waiters’ dedication.

“Don’t argue. Back to work!”

Shrugging, Billy complied with his request, but not without rebelliously scowling at John one last time.

Angelo watched him disappear in the adjoining room, then he did his best to distract himself with his work. He kept the cooks on the go, instructed the rest of the personnel and sauntered from table to table, making sure that none of his guests had any reason to complain. The only table he avoided was table three; he tried not to pay attention to the empty chair opposite to John, and he tried to ignore the tears silently streaming down John’s face and dripping onto his plate.


End file.
